About three in the morning the lead ceased to pour down in a silvery molten shower, its roofs fell in, and by dawn it was nothing but a fire-blackened shell much as it remains to-day. Just before daybreak Emlyn came to her, saying—
“There is one who would speak with you.”
“I cannot see him,” she answered, “I bide by my husband.”
“Yet you should,” said Emlyn, “since but for him you would now have no husband. The monk Martin, who held off the murderers, is dying and desires to bid you farewell.”
Then Cicely went to find the man still conscious, but fading away with the flow of his own blood, which could not be stayed by any skill they had.
“I have come to thank you,” she murmured, who knew not what else to say.
“Thank me not,” he answered faintly, pausing often between his words, “who did but strive to repay part of a great debt. Last winter I shared in awful sin, in obedience, not to my heart, but to my vows. I who was set to watch the body of your husband found that he lived, and by my help he was borne away upon a ship. That ship was taken by the Infidels, and afterwards he and I and Jeffrey served together upon their galleys. There I fell sick, and your husband nursed me back to life. It was I who brought you the deeds and wrote the letter which I gave to Emlyn Stower. My vows still held me fast, and I did no more. This night I broke their bonds, for when I heard the order given that he should be slain I ran down before the murderers and fought my best, forgetting that I was a priest, till at length you came. Let this atone my crimes against my Country, my King and you that I died for my friend at last, as I am glad to do who find this world—too difficult.”
“I will tell him if he lives,” sobbed Cicely.
He opened his eyes, which had shut, and answered—
“Oh, he’ll live, he’ll live. You have had many troubles, but, save for the creep of age and death, they are over. I can see and know.”